


The Lonely Hour

by LadyAJ_13



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Drunk Dialing, Episode 0603 - Confection, Friendship, Gen, Post-Slash, you could read this as
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 05:50:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20961512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: After a few too many whiskeys, Morse calls an old friend.





	The Lonely Hour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [guardianoffun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/guardianoffun/gifts).

> For guardianoffun, who gave me the prompt 'drunk call' - sorry if you were hoping for funny and got this instead :P
> 
> Takes place in Confection - in the show, we see Strange come across Morse asleep at his desk in the middle of the night, a bottle at his side. This is a little 'missing scene', from before he fell asleep.

He’s never actually had cause to dial the number, but he committed it to memory years ago, and several glasses of scotch (more than several, he quietly admits) are not enough to strike it from his mind.

It’s stupid, calling. He knows that. Jakes won’t want to hear from him, years down the line, but it’s not like they have a relationship left to ruin. And he’s so lonely. Thursday off with Box and Jago. Strange being... weird. And Joan, of course. There's such a distance between them now.

It’s easy to imagine a warm, familiar voice down the phone. His fingers pick out the numbers and the dial tone disappears, replaced by ringing.

“Hello? Carter’s Farm.”

It’s him, and he does sound the same. Stubbornness or something else has kept any American drawl from his tone, and instead it sounds like he could have dialled just down the road. Or four years back in time.

“Hello?”

“Hi, P-, Jakes.”

A pause, and then, “Morse? Is that you?” The line is a little crackly, but other than that he could be in the room. Morse pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling his eyes well with tears and hating himself for it.

“Yeah,” he manages, but he knows his voice sounds tight.

“Everything okay?”

It isn’t, it so isn’t okay, but it’s also not breaking point. There’s no prison door slamming on him, no one bleeding to death.

“No,” he says quietly. There’s a pause, like Jakes is thinking, and a slight sound that might be an in-drawn breath. “I’m drunk,” he heads off, forcing a laugh that sounds rather wetter than he thought it would. He scrubs his hand across his face and frowns when it comes away damp. “Just being morose. Nothing serious.”

Maybe Jakes thinks it is serious, because it’s enough to have him calling, out of the blue after four years of no contact at all. But really it had just been circumstance. Drinking at a desk with a phone right there, not wanting to go back to the section house, and looking out at an office Jakes never stood in. He wanted him here, for a second.

“Where’s Thursday?”

Morse laughs again, a hollow sound that seems to double back on him from the empty office walls. “Out drinking with the new boss.”

“Not a good one?”

“More Lott than Bright.” The silence speaks volumes. “Thursday's in deep.”

“Strange? He’s still around right?”

Morse shakes his head, bowed over the desk with one hand holding the phone tight to his ear. It’s probably leaving a mark. “Sort of. He’s not - not-“

“It’s okay, Morse.” Morse shakes his head again, but hums into the phone. “Just stay straight, yeah. Thursday will come around. Strange'll see sense.” Jakes’ voice is kinder than he ever remembers it, and he wonders if that’s part and parcel of being a dad, or if he really sounds that pathetic. He glances at the clock, and works out the time difference. At least it’s around three in the afternoon over there. He’s not woken him up to cry down the phone on him.

“Tell me about your day?”

Jakes does, and Morse lets his voice wash over him, tales of children and cows and farming exploits that have him smiling and then chuckling. It can’t possibly be one day's stories, but they have a lot to catch up on and Morse forgives Jakes the poetic license to hear more. Eventually, his voice slows.

“I’ve got to go, Morse.” He sounds regretful. “Kids, you know.” Morse nods, although of course he doesn’t and Jakes can’t see him. “Get some sleep, yeah?”

"Yeah. Bye Jakes."

Jakes had probably been picturing him sat in his kitchen, steps from a bed. If he'd known he was in the office he'd have said go home instead. But he's an ocean away, and as Morse lets the receiver clunk back into place he simply follows it down, folding his body until he's slumped forwards and the light is blocked by the arms he curls around his head. His eyes are heavy and he knows the section house will still be rowdy at this time.

He'll just rest here a moment.


End file.
